


Bargaining With Death

by Bookwormgal



Series: Choices [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidents, BAMF Warlock Dowling, Broken Bones, Fluff, Footnotes, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Just Add Kittens, Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, No Angst, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Serious Injuries, Temporary Character Death, Warlock Dowling Is Not Normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29467434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: Newt had a tendency to get volunteered for things without being asked first. Which is how he ended up on top of a ladder, helping one of their neighbors clean her gutter. It was also how he fell off that ladder, which lead to Death showing up to collect him.But Warlock had heard enough stories about people challenging Death to various games in order to win back someone's life. He's got this covered.
Relationships: Warlock Dowling & Newton Pulsifer
Series: Choices [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739542
Comments: 27
Kudos: 58





	Bargaining With Death

**Author's Note:**

> I've been plotting this fic for a little while and I'm glad that I'm finally getting to the point where I can write it. Hope that you enjoy what I have in mind.

Warlock Dowling was once described as being too normal. Aziraphale and Crowley, both assuming that the boy was the Anti-Christ, Expected him to show obvious signs of his destiny. But on the surface, he seemed like an ordinary human.

He collected stamps. He excelled at math. And he had his moments of kind and bratty behavior in equal measure. Perfectly normal, human, and ordinary.

But his normal and ordinary destiny was tainted by the Expectations of various occult and ethereal beings. And reality tends to bend a little to their Expectations. And at the moment that the Anti-Christ should have been coming into his powers, Warlock's own talents bloomed. Not as impressive as what Adam gained, but more than what he should have possessed.

The ability to remain unnoticed. The ability to command the armies of demons, even if he'd needed to be in Hell and with Adam's support the one time that he'd tried. And the ability to Dream.

He could Dream of things that were real. Only a day into the future or a day into the past, but he could still see more than he was meant to see. That particular skillset concerned Aziraphale sometimes,[1] but it wasn't like Warlock could control when it happened. He didn't purposefully try to Dream. He just wrote them down when they happened and tried to understand them.

So when he rolled over one morning, rubbing at his eyes as he scrambled for his dream journal, it was an act of habit. He'd been doing that since shortly after his eleventh birthday. He was already writing down a description of his Dream before he was fully awake. Only after he was a few sentences in did he truly comprehend what he'd seen.

And Warlock Dragon, as he'd decided to call himself for the last few months, was far more aware of how the world really worked than Warlock Dowling had been. He understood more about what his Dream told him.

Groaning tiredly and dragging a hand through his hair, Warlock reluctantly pulled himself out of bed. He could tell that the Dream wasn't for the past. And that meant he was going to be busy that day. He'd never tried _changing_ the events that he'd Dreamed, but he could certainly work with them to ensure the best possible outcome.

First, he needed to visit Ms. Corbyn and Whiskers. Warlock would be leaving her house with something fuzzy.

* * *

Newton Pulsifer had many fine qualities. He was level-headed and practical. And while he gave off the impression of being constantly bewildered, he was actually rather intelligent in his own way. He could use common sense to figure out the location of the Anti-Christ using only newspaper clippings. He was a grounded individual who could balance and support his former profession descendant girlfriend. Newt was surrounded by unique and unusual people who needed his rational, reasonable, and human outlook to help give them a solid foundation sometimes. He was sturdy and reliable.

But unfortunately, he was not very good at standing up for himself.

He tended to go along with things. Newt would get swept up by events or other people. Like when he ended up working with Shadwell. He didn't really plan to be a witchfinder. Circumstances and a lack of immediate alternatives just seemed to sweep him along like a current sometimes and he didn't have the willpower to resist. And as a result, people had a tendency to volunteer him for things without asking first. They knew that he wouldn't complain.

Mrs. Charlotte Blankenship was eighty-seven years old, still possessed most of her mental faculties, and would claim Newt for chores around her home any time that she caught sight of him in the neighborhood. And he could never bring himself to turn her down. Mostly plumbing issues because she continued to believe that he was a plumber for some inexplicable reason, but she would find other odds and ends for him to work on around her house.[2]

Which was why Newt was currently perched on top of a ladder and trying to clean out her gutters for the upcoming spring.

It was a messy and awkward job on a mildly unsteady ladder. A task that was better suited for two people. Mostly because the ladder had a warning sticker explicitly stating that it required a second person to hold it steady and that no one should stand on the top step. But Newt didn't have much choice if he wanted to finish the job.

He pulled out clumps of wet leaves and muck. Which was not even slightly pleasant. Newt tried to distract himself from the grimy sensation by thinking about Anathema and their plans for the evening.

It was Valentine's Day and while they didn't make any major plans to go out, the two of them did intend to spend the evening together curled up on the sofa watching the mushiest movies possible and laughing about some of the cheesy lines. And he fully intended to cuddle up next to her under a cozy blanket.

Even two and a half years later, Newt was still head-over-heels for her. She was brilliant, amazing, and brave. Brave enough to face the world without the guidance of prophecies. She deserved better than him. And yet she still chose Newt for some inexplicable reason.[3]

Newt's thoughts were on Anathema as he leaned, stretching out a little further for a large clump just barely out of his reach. He had a distracted smile on his face as he thought about her. He didn't notice the dark figure watching him with empty eye sockets.

But that was the thing. That figure was always around, but people rarely noticed until it was their time.

The dark figure watched patiently as Newt leaned, causing the ladder to wobble. To shake and tilt, causing a startled Newt to struggle to correct the angle. Hands scrambled to grab onto the gutter, to stop what was happening. But gravity refused to be kind. It pulled him out of reach too fast for him to do anything. He barely managed a yelp of surprise before Newt came crashing down.

The ladder clattered loudly as it hit the ground. And he hit one of the decorative stones that Mrs. Blankenship set around the borders of her flowerbeds. Which immediately snapped his neck and cracked his skull on impact.

And Death was ready to step in.

"No."

The Horseman stopped. As did everything else. He turned towards the unexpected voice. A boy dressed in various shades of gray carrying a box under his arm walked over to him. He gave the limp figure a sad look before turning his focus back towards Death. The teenage boy didn't seem that impressed.

It was rare that humans noticed his presence. But then again, it should not be that surprising. Both the boy and Death were skilled when it came to avoiding the attention of those around them.

"NO?" asked Death, his voice like falling marble slabs sealing a tomb.

Shaking his head, the boy said, "You're not taking Newt. It would break Anathema's heart. It would upset Adam. And I don't like it either. He's nice."

"I AM NOT ONE TO SIMPLY STAND ASIDE BECAUSE YOU ASK ME TO, WARLOCK DRAGON," he said.[4] "NOTHING IN THE UNIVERSE CAN STOP ME FROM FULFILLING MY DUTY. AND CURRENTLY MY DUTY IS TAKE CHARGE OF NEWTON PULSIFER."

"Maybe," said Warlock with a shrug. "But there are stories, right? Stories about people trying to win back someone's life? Sometimes their own, but other times someone else's. And lots of times that involves games. I guess if you do this job long enough, you get bored and you might like to play a game every now and then. Usually chess, but the stories don't say it _has_ to be chess."

"AND YOU WISH TO ATTEMPT SUCH A THING? A GAME TO RECLAIM NEWTON PULSIFER? IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE SOMEONE HAS PROPOSED SUCH A WAGER."

Shrugging again, Warlock said, "I already made a deal with the devil to get my nanny back and then I sprayed Satan with holy water. This shouldn't be much harder." He shifted his grip on the box. "How about this? I pick the game. If you win, you can go back to your job. But if I win, Newt gets to stay. Either way, you can have the surprise that I brought you. As a 'thank you' for letting me try."

He stared silently at Warlock for a few moments. Dead silence. No wind, no birds, and no sounds beyond their tiny corner. Everything was frozen around them, Time halted by a powerful entity so that they could negotiate uninterrupted.

And so Death wouldn't be running behind schedule with his pickups.

"YOU REALIZE THAT I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT IS IN THE BOX ALREADY, CORRECT?"[5]

"You could have at least _pretended_ that you didn't know," he said, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, do we have a deal?"

Death stared at him a little longer. Warlock stared back, unwavering in the skeletal face of the personification of the concept of death itself. It was not quite the same as when Adam confronted the Horseman during Nope-madeddon. Where Adam was determined and forceful, Warlock seemed unconcerned and bored.

"VERY WELL THEN," he said slowly. "I AGREE TO YOUR TERMS. WHAT GAME SHALL WE PLAY?"

Warlock grinned as he set down the box, a quiet _meep_ escaping when he placed it on the ground. Then he held out his fist in front of them. The skeletal figure tilted his head.

"We're playing rock-paper-scissors," said Warlock. "You know the rules?"

"AN UNUSUAL CHOICE, BUT I AM AWARE OF HOW THE GAME IS PLAYED. ARE YOU CERTAIN ABOUT YOUR DECISION?"

Glancing down at the lifeless body, Warlock said, "One round. Winner take all."

Slow and as unstoppable as the extinction of a galaxy, Death reached out a hand. Metacarpals curled into a closed fist, mirroring the boy's position.

There was a somberness to the pair of them. A graveness as they both accepted the seriousness of the venture. Bargaining for another's life was an ancient tradition. Almost like Orpheus trying to reclaim Eurydice with a song. But instead of trying to win the sympathy of the rulers of the underworld, Warlock was locked in competition with a figure who personified a primordial force of the universe. It was not something to take lightly.

"ROCK," he said solemnly, both of them shaking their fists in unison. "PAPER. SCISSORS. SHOO—"

Death's words were interrupted by Warlock covering his bony fist with his hand. The boy glared at the tall and dark figure, practically daring him to argue.

"Paper covers rock," said Warlock firmly. "I win."

Hesitating a moment, Death said, "ARE WE NOT SUPPOSED TO WAIT UNTIL WE SAY 'SHOOT' BEFORE WE PICK?"

"That's not the version that I play," he said with a shrug. "And I'm the one who picked the game, so we were playing my version."

Silence hung over them like a guillotine blade. Sharp, dangerous, and potentially fatal. Death stared down at the boy with empty eye sockets. His skeletal face showed no expression or reaction. Not a single hint of his thoughts. But Warlock's poker face wasn't bad either. They remained in stubborn silence.

Then something sliced through that silence. A low rough sound. Like a shovel sliding through dirt. An unnerving sound rarely before heard since the beginning of existence.

Death was chuckling quietly.

"YOU ARE SURPRISINGLY ADEPT WHEN IT COMES TO USING THE TERMS OF A DEAL FOR SUCH A YOUNG HUMAN."

"Nanny's a demon. Must have picked up a few things," said Warlock with another shrug. "Anyway, I've won. Give Newt back and I'll give you the box."

"YOU DRIVE A HARD BARGAIN, WARLOCK DRAGON. AND YOU MAKE THE MOST UNUSUAL OFFERS. I CANNOT RECALL THE LAST TIME THAT ANY SOUL BROUGHT ME A GIFT."

Warlock smirked at the tone before kneeling down to open the box. He pulled out a small, fuzzy, and wiggling kitten. It blinked its yellow eyes briefly before turning its head towards the Horseman.

" _Mew_ ," it meeped loudly.

With infinite care and gentleness, Death took the small creature from him. Skeletal fingers gently stroked the kitten's fur. After a moment, purrs rumbled from the animal as it leaned into the contact.

"Your job seems lonely. Thought you could use some company. I mean, Nanny and Aziraphale have each other, but no one ever talks about Death having anyone. And I didn't want any hard feelings after all of this."

Death didn't seem to pay attention to his words. He was busy coaxing the young kitten into purring louder. It should have been a black cat. The perfect companion for Death itself.[6] Or perhaps a white kitten to fit with his role as the pale rider. But when Ms. Corbyn let Warlock pick one from Whisker's latest litter, he'd chosen a gray tabby kitten with white on its forepaws. Completely unsuited for the dignified role of Death's companion, but he didn't seem to care about appearances as he scratched its ears.

"GREETINGS, LITTLE ONE. I AM AFRAID THAT MY PAST ENCOUNTERS WITH YOUNG CREATURES ARE RARELY HAPPY ONES. AND ALWAYS IN AN OFFICAL CAPACITY."

" _Mew_."

"BUT I AM NOT HERE TO COLLECT YOU. NO, I AM NOT." Death pulled the kitten close to his chest, still petting it gently. "AND HOW CURIOUS. THE WHITE ON YOUR PAWS VAGUELY RESEMBLE FOOTWEAR. PERHAPS YOU SHOULD HAVE A NAME BASED ON THAT FEATURE. HUMANS SEEM TO ENJOY SUCH WHIMSICAL IDEAS. OR PERHAPS A NAME BASED ON YOUR PURRING. I RATHER ENJOY YOUR PURRING, LITTLE ONE."

Shrugging, Warlock said, "You can name it whatever you like. But first, you have to fix Newt."

Death reluctantly looked away from his new pet. He knelt down to the lifeless figure and touched Newt. Bones crackled and popped as vertebrae straightened and his skull healed. Color flooded back into his pale face. And as time began ticking forward, Newt gasped and flailed a little in panic. Hands fumbled across his body in search of injuries that he was certain must be there.

When he finally realized that he wasn't hurt and Newt looked up, he only saw Warlock crouching next to him. No dark figure cuddling a kitten. After all, humans had a very certain view when it came to reality and tended to miss things that they believed shouldn't be there.

"You okay?" asked Warlock. "That fall looked rough."

Still looking a little wild-eyed, Newt said, "I… Yeah, I'm all right. I'm good. Somehow."

Warlock stood up. Then he helped pull Newt back to his feet. The man still seemed a little unsteady and uncertain of what just happened.

"Need any help finishing? I can hold the ladder and keep it steady. I don't want you to fall again."

"Okay," he said quietly. Swallowing hard, Newt repeated, "Okay, Warlock. That sounds great. Yeah, don't want to fall again. Anathema would kill me."

Rubbing his neck briefly, Newt carefully put the ladder back up against the house. And once they were both satisfied that it was stable, Newt carefully climbed back up to finish cleaning the gutters.

Maybe it was cheating for Warlock to challenge someone to a game when he had already Dreamed about how to win. But Newt would get to go home to Anathema at the end of the day. And Death didn't leave empty-handed. As far as Warlock was concerned, it worked out for everyone.

* * *

Death was everywhere at all times, waiting patiently. He collected those whose lives came to an end. Whether naturally or by forces beyond their control. He met everyone eventually. But only once and only briefly. It was simply part of the job. And for the entirety of existence, he accepted his role without thought. It didn't bother him because he never spared the situation a moment of thought. He lived[7] for the job and the closest thing to companionship that he had was his fellow Horsemen.

He didn't get lonely because he never dwelled on the fact that he was alone and separate from everyone and everything except for that brief instant when life ended.

But if the poor souls that he encountered were given a reason to notice or care, they might have seen Death in an almost cheerful mood. Or at least what would pass for cheerful for an entity that existed as a true neutral and rarely showed strong emotions about anything. They might also have noticed a small gray kitten tucked under his arm. One that Death would occasionally cuddle as he worked. Or would let the confused souls of children gently pet before moving on.

"YOU ARE A VERY GOOD ASSISTANT, MORT."

" _Mew_."

"YES, YOU ARE. A VERY GOOD ASSISTANT INDEED."

* * *

1 Humans had a tendency to go mad when they had visions of the future. They couldn't handle being temporally unhinged and it would generally damage their sanity. Agnes Nutter handled her madness better than most. Aziraphale didn't want their godchild to end up like one of those mad prophets that he'd witnessed over the ages. [ ↑ ]

2 Though it was probably best for the entire Tadfield community that she didn't think that he was an electrician. [ ↑ ]

3 Though Newt would be the first to admit that they had a very uncomfortable and questionable start. Having their first meeting and especially first intimate moment together predicted by Agnes Nutter and having Anathema go along with it because she was following prophecies rather than actually choosing to be with him was not exactly all right by most definitions. It was creepy and wrong. And he made certain that every step forward after that point was her decision and not something that she felt obligated to do. That's how he knew that they were together now because that's what _Anathema_ wanted. [ ↑ ]

4 Because Death knew everyone. And he knew what they preferred to be called. He knew that Warlock had changed his surname and addressed him appropriately. [ ↑ ]

5 And he knew if it was alive or dead. [ ↑ ]

6 Just ask any Goth. [ ↑ ]

7 Metaphorically. [ ↑ ]

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this was mostly supposed to be a short amusing fic. I had fun with it. And hopefully someone out there enjoyed it too.


End file.
